


Fall On Me

by Edge_of_Clairvoyance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Corporal Punishment, Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Non-Consensual Spanking, POV Sam Winchester, Pre-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Spanking, Teen Dean Winchester, Teenchesters, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 17:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12086010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edge_of_Clairvoyance/pseuds/Edge_of_Clairvoyance
Summary: 12-year-old Sam gets into trouble, and Dean comes to his aid in more ways than one.





	Fall On Me

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains parental spanking of a minor. if it offends, please don't read. Rated T for language (Winchesters, gotta love 'em).
> 
> The title is an R.E.M. song.
> 
> Lots of thanks to [Linden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/pseuds/Linden) for the corrections and wise remarks.

     As soon as Sam stormed into the motel room he slammed the door shut with both hands, as if he could make it even more tightly closed than it went. He spun around as he heard the unmistakable metalic sound of a cocking gun.

     "Christ, Sam, I almost shot you," Dean breathed out, turning the barrel upward and away from his brother. Sam didn't doubt that even freshly woken from sleep and half-lying in bed as Dean was, he still would have managed to blow Sam's twelve-year-old head clean off.

     As Dean unloaded the gun and shoved it back under his pillow, Sam again turned to the door to lock it, and then leaned his back to it, head down, catching his breath. He glanced up to see Dean looking at him intently.

     "What's up, kiddo?" Sam immediately dropped his eyes again. Dean got off the bed. He tilted his head as he squinted at Sam and then his expression changed as he registered the bruised face and blood-stained shirt. "Sammy, what the hell?..." Dean covered the distance between them in a flash, dropped to his knees in front of his brother and grabbed his chin. "What's this? What happened?!"

     "I- I got in a fight," Sam whispered. Dean was still holding his chin, turning his face to and fro.

     "A fight? As in outside? Where you're not allowed to be?" Dean's voice was shaking a little, but Sam thought he sounded scared rather than angry. He got to his feet and peeled Sam's jacket off, then steered him with a hand between the shoulder blades to the bathroom of their motel room. There he closed the lid on the toilet, sat Sam on it and grabbed a towel and their first-aid kit.

     "Okay, let's see," he mumbled as he turned on the faucet. Sam couldn't help but notice Dean was absently testing the water with his hand to make sure the temperature was cozy before soaking the towel.

     Sitting himself on the edge of the tub, Dean carefully wiped Sam's face with the wet towel, blinking sympathetically when his little brother winced.

     "So it was one blow right under your eye, it's going to bruise up but not to a full shiner, I think. Another on the temple on the other side. The blood is all from the split lip, they bleed like a sonovabitch but it's not a major cut," the towel was now stained red and Dean dropped it into his lap and applied a little iodine from the first-aid kit to the cut on Sam's lip. He pressed gently with his fingertips on Sam's cheekbones and around his eye sockets to feel for fractures, and seemed satisfied. "Lift your shirt." Sam complied, letting his brother feel his ribs with the same gentle touch. "Anything else?" Wordlessly Sam held out his hands, palms up, presenting the places where the skin scraped off when he blocked his fall on the sharp gravel. Dean wet the towel again and wiped Sam's palms. It stung a bit, but the scrapes were shallow and hardly bleeding. Dean turned Sam's hands to look at his lightly bruised knuckles and nodded to himself. At last he let out a breath and straightened up. "Spill, Sam."

     "I… I went out when you fell asleep."

     "That much I got," Dean still didn't sound as angry as he should have been, but Sam figured the anger will be building quickly enough once Dean's scare will wear off and he will ensure Sam was well enough to have his butt kicked.

     "I just needed some air, that's all. We've been on lock-down in this room for what, ten days now? I've read all the books in here and I can't stand the TV anymore."

     "I don't like it any more than you do, but it's for our protection."

     "We'd be much more protected if Dad put us in a different town."

     Dean sighed. "We've been over this. The ghouls are infesting both this and the neighbouring town. The closest safe town is two days' drive away, and Dad couldn't spare the time to get us there and get back while people die every single day here. He didn't even take me out on this hunt because it's so dangerous. We need to suck it up."

     "But it's crazy, Dean. Dad won't even let us go as far as the vending machines."

    "I got you candy bars, didn't I?" And he did. Being left alone in dingy motel rooms and crappy short-term rental apartements was routine; but not being allowed to exit the room altogether had Dean facing a new and interesting problem of meeting their day-to-day necessities with the only supplies provided by their father who stumbled in every other day, mad and frustrated from another wild goose chase and exhausted to the bone. But Dean pulled it off like he always did, streching out the supplies and sweet-talking the motel's head housekeeper into having their laundry done with the room's linens. The elderly woman was actually quite taken with the trademark Dean Charm, hence the candy bars. But there was so much even he could do to alleviate Sam's boredom.

     It wasn't like Dean himself was happy to sit on his ass all day, but he was under Dad's orders. In the room they had every piece of weapon Dad wasn't using for the hunt, and Dean took each gun apart, cleaned it and put it back together. Slowly. Twice. He also checked the salt-lines and wards every three hours and doubled his training routine – albeit minus the running part of it – and Sam was getting tired just watching him do endless push-ups and squats and crunches and air-boxing. Dean did try to keep Sam entertained with card and word games, TV and basically everything Sam asked him to do – except setting even one foot outside the room. Dad's orders.

     Dean took another breath. "Okay, so you went outside, and?"

     "I wasn't going to get far. Only as far as that little playground next to the parking lot. There isn't even a road to cross to get there."

     "Like ghouls care about crossing roads," muttered Dean.

     "I just hung around there for a while, on the swings and stuff. It was less than half an hour, and there was no one there at all."

     "Who'd you get into a fight with, then?"

     "This kid came to the playground. An older kid, maybe fourteen or fifteen. I was going to head back anyway, but he started, like, messing with me, blocking my way to make me go around and then blocking the way around and crap like that. And he also started saying things."

     "What things?" Dean was still calm enough, but Sam could tell that if the boy who messed with him was within arm's reach, he would be already helplessly trying to stuff his torn windpipe back into his throat by now.

     "Like my shaggy hair, and hand-me-down clothes, and that I'm short. You know, things," Sam tried to make his voice light, but couldn't quite make it. Dean eyed him in silence. "I tried to ditch him, but then he pushed me and I fell," Sam looked down at his scaped palms. "He was looking to beat somebody up. I only fought him off enough so I could get away, it's not like I wanted a fight."

     "I know you didn't," Dean brushed his brother's bangs away from his face. Sam didn't raise his eyes.

     "Dad will be so pissed," he said quietly.

     "I'll handle Dad. Don't worry," Dean stood up and tugged at Sam's arm to guide him out of the bathroom. "Let's get that shirt changed and find something cold to put on your face. Then I'm going to hunt down that kid and kill him."

     Sam looked up, horrified. "You can't go outside. It's enough that I'm in trouble, I don't want you to be, too."

     "Dude, this is coming out of my ass anyway. I might as well make it worth my while."

     "But-" the clank of the door lock cut him off. Both boys froze in place at the bedroom area as the door swung open to reveal their father, his clothes stained with mud. He staggered in and dropped a duffle bag on the floor before turning to lock the door behind him.

     Dean moved immediately to get the bag and help his dad out of his dirty coat. "Dad, you okay?"

     "Yeah, just tired," Dad let out a grunt as he moved into the room. "Couldn't find so much as a damned trace all day, and I got word that a a few other hunters are headed this way because they think I'm in way over my head with this." He shook his head and took a few steps forward when his eyes finally met Sam. His mouth gaped and he rushed over to his youngest, cupping his face with both hands. "Sammy, what happened to you?!"

     Sam was internally debating whether to blame the cupboard door – providing he could explain how the door managed to hit both sides of his face at once – or to just come clean, when Dean spoke up.

     "I punched him."

     Dad turned around. "You what?"

     "Punched his snotty face."

     "Why?" Dad's surprise seemed to be so profound that it overtook the anger he should have been showing right about now.

     "Because he's a whiney, needy little bitch that can't keep his freakin' mouth shut," Dean was glaring at him now. His voice was so venomous that if Sam hadn't known for a fact that his brother was faking it, he would have believed there was nothing Dean hated more than him.

     Dad's eyes were as wide as his gaping mouth. It took him a moment to process this new turn of events. "Dean, what the hell?"

     Now Dean's blazing eyes turned to his father. "You try being cooped up with the scrawny-ass brat this long. He's been getting on my nerves and he got what's coming to him. Actually, it's all your fault."

     Even if Sam was able to make himself speak, he would have been stunned into silence once again. Dad seemed to share Sam's shock. "Wha-"

     "You heard me. You're the one to lock us up while you scamper around trying to get the ghouls. Those hunters that think you're in over your head are probably right, because really, ten days and not a single lousy kill? Give me a break. Even Sammy could do better."

     The shock was starting to make way to rage. Sam could see how it washed over Dad's face and shuddered. He realized what his brother was doing. The idea of Dean beating up his baby brother bad enough to injure his face didn't sit well with their father; it was too far-fetched. So Dean opted to provoke him, draw the fire until Dad's temper got the best of him and made him forget why this entire fight started. And he knew exactly which buttons to push.

     "In fact, why don't you take Sam out with you? At least he'd make a good bait, 'cause he sure as hell has no other use around here. And maybe that way you'll manage to finally make a kill instead of telling yourself all that crawling around counts for real hunting. Oh, forgot, there are _real_ hunters on their way, you might want to hang around and take some pointers."

     "You watch your mouth, boy," Dad's tone made Sam's stomach feel like it was filled with ice water.

     "My mouth ain't the only one talkin' here. At least I can back my talk with some action," Dean's stance, voice, expression, all cried out pure defiance. It was like waving a red flag in front of a raging bull. Or worse, in front of John Winchester.

     Dad's hand lashed out to grab Dean's upper arm and he propelled him towards the table in the kitchenette area. The table had some chairs tucked neatly under it, with their lightly padded backs jutting over its surface, standing roughly at the level of the tops of Dean's thighs. Dad bent him over one of the chairs, letting his upper body drape on top of the table. Dean leaned his forearms on the scrached wood-colored formica and curled his fingers over the far edge. His amulete made a soft clanking sound as it touched the table.

     Sam watched in dread as his father reached down to unbuckle his belt. He should have said something, he should have run up there, he should have stopped this. But it was as if he was encased in invisible stone, panting and shaking as cold waves washed all over his body. He was fighting to regain control when Dean cocked his head and glanced at him.

     The corner of his brother's mouth curled up slightly, and he actually _winked_ at Sam. Before Sam could take this in, Dean turned his face to stare at the table again.

     Dad held the belt by the buckle, doubled it over and brought it down hard on the seat of Dean's jeans. Dean winced, but remained silent. The swats kept coming, laid fast and hard, their horrible sound bouncing off the ugly wallpapers of the motel room. Sam hoped Dean's jeans would take away some of the leather's sting, but from the hight Dad's arm was rearing to, the force of the swats that pushed Dean forward against the chair, the way his brother's body was flinching sharply with each swat, he could tell that whatever protection the denim provided was negligible.

     Dean didn't cry out, though. He held on to the edge of the table hard enough to whiten his knuckles, his shoulders hunched up with his head sagging between them so low that his forehead nearly touched the table. Somewhere around the eighth or ninth lash of the belt – Sam wasn't counting, not deliberately, but some part of his brain was registering the progress of the whipping – Dean had started to let out stifled moans. It was more as if the swats were pushing the air from his lungs out through his mouth, but it pierced Sam's gut worse than if Dean had been screaming his head off. Because he knew it wasn't just pride that made Dean fight so hard to maintain his stoicism; it was mainly because Dean was very much aware his little brother was watching. He didn't want to upset Sam.

     Sam hardly noticed how badly he was shivering, how deep his fingernails were digging into the scraped palms of his clenched fists, how freely the tears were running down his bruised face. He was terrified and shocked and pained and mostly mad. Mad at his stupid, stupid, _stupid_ self.

     And then it was over. Dad stood with his chest heaving, the belt dangling from his hand. Dean remained bent over the table, face hidden in his arms, his body trembling. Sam thought he could hear small, quiet whimpers. He wasn't even sure if they came from his mouth or from Dean's.

     At last Dean propped himself up a little higher on his elbows and his head lifted somewhat from between his arms. His breath was hitching, but he was visibly trying to calm it down.

     Dad spoke up, his voice even. "You done giving me attitude?"

     "Yes, sir," Dean's reply was only slightly more than a whisper.

     "Gonna punch your brother again?"

     "No, sir."

     "Alright. You can get up now."

     Dean wiped his face on his sleeve and snuffled before moving his palms to rest flat on the table and pushing himself up. As he did, he cringed and half-stifled a hiss of pain. He gathered himself quickly, managed to straighen up and turned away from the table. He stood there, eyes on the floor, arms hanging down his sides, as much docile now as he had been defiant before.

     "You owe Sam an apology."

     Dean raised his gaze to meet Sam's. His lashes were wet, the eyes red-rimmed. "I'm so sorry, Sammy. I really am. We good?"

     If Sam thought he could be able to talk at long last, this froze his vocal cords all over again. There was honesty in Dean's voice; He was truly and sincerely apologizing. He covered for Sam's disobedience, talked back to Dad in a way that no doubt felt like knives in his mouth, and suffered a whipping he didn't deserve in the least. And he was _apologizing_.

     Sam's vision started to blur with new tears, but he realized Dad and Dean were waiting for him to respond, so he nodded, and Dean nodded back.

     Before either one of them could say anything, there was a sharp knock on the door.

     Dad startled, but came to immediately. "Stay put," he ordered with a low voice, and reached his hand to the gun on the small of his back while he walked towards the door.

     Finally, Sam's paralysis broke. He ran to Dean, wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in his brother's chest. For a moment he was sure Dean would push him away. Damn it, he _hoped_ Dean would push him away. It was the least he deserved. But Dean's arms, strong and warm and reassuring, hugged him back tight.

     Sam didn't manage to do anything but sob into his big brother's shirt, and Dean stroked his hair with slow, patient moves. "Shhhh, it's okay, Sammy. Everything's okay." But it wasn't okay, none of it, and the sobs came harder.

     Over his tears and self-pity, Sam could hear Dad talking to somebody at the door. It was a woman's voice, unpleasantly screechy, and sounded angry. Dad was talking in his most serene and polite manner, and Sam quickly made himself calm down enough to listen to the exchange. He still had his face hidden in Dean's shirt, sniffling, and Dean kept his arms around him, even more protectively than before.

     "Again, ma'am, I highly doubt you've reached the right room. My boy hasn't been out all day."

     "This is definitely the right room, sir, he was seen going inside. Why won't you just call him over and we'll settle this!"

     There was a pause, and then, "Sam."

     Sam moved his head to look at his father. From where he stood he didn't see the woman who was just outside the door, but he didn't need to. He had a pretty good idea what it was about.

     "Come here," Dad was talking calmly, almost softly, but Sam knew better. For a moment he hasistated, not wanting to leave the safty of his brother's hug, but Dean, after a second of tightening his hold, let his arms drop away from Sam.

     Sam walked slowly to the door. Dean drifted some way behind him, not too close – Dad had said to stay put, and right now Dean was in no position to disobey. Sam came to stand by his dad's side, and finally looked at the two people at the door. The woman was stout, hair dyed blond with dark roots, and too much makeup. Sam already knew that the boy from the playground would be with her, and he wasn't wrong; he didn't get a good look at him after he managed to hit his face and run, but now he saw the kid's nose was swollen with dried blood caked around the nostrils. His first thought was _God, did I break his nose?_ And the second one was _good_.

     "That's him," the boy said in a nasal voice. The woman glared at him.

     "I'm calling the police!" She screeched. "Your boy is a manace to society! He nearly broke my son's nose, and I tell you, I won't let it pass!"

     Dad was still calm. "What happened, Sam?"

     "I told you what happened! Your kid _attacked_ my son at the playground!"

     Dad didn't take his eyes off Sam. "Did you?"

     "He picked on me," Sam tried to keep his voice steady. "He came up to me and messed with me, said mean things and didn't let me leave. And he pushed me." Sam presented his scraped palms. "I just hit him to get away."

     "He's lying, I didn't do anything!" The boy's face was reddning now. Dad said nothing, just studied Sam at length, and then turned back to the woman and boy.

     "Well, ma'am, I guess you could call the police if you wanted to. But I will be the one pressing charges against your son, and I can tell you the police will take my side, too."

     "What?!" The woman nearly shrieked, and Sam fought the urge to cover his ears. "Are you insane?! Just look at what your boy did to my son!"

     "I am looking. And I am also looking at what _your_ son did to _my_ boy, and so will the cops. And you know what else they'll see? They'll see a fifteen-year-old teenager with bruised knuckles and other signes of former quarrels, accusing a twelve-year-old child, who is ten inches shorter and at least twenty pounds lighter, of _attacking_ him on the playground." The woman and her son just stood there and gawked at Dad as he continued with a voice that was still quite calm but took on an edge that reminded Sam of a growling tiger. "So here's what we'll do, lady. You take that little miserable bully of yours far away from my boy, right now. And maybe, just maybe, I will decide to leave you alone. And believe me, you _want_ me to leave you alone. Do we have an understanding?"

     The woman stared at him for what seemed to be a full five minutes before turning and practically running away, her son in tow.

     Dad closed the door and locked it without haste. Sam took a few tentative steps back while Dean moved forward until they were touching. Dad turned and looked at Sam, but Dean spoke before Dad had a chance to.

     "Dad-"

     "Shut it."

     "But I-"

     "I said shut it."

     "Please, just-"

     "I will put your ass back over that table right now, so help me God, Dean."

     As pale as Dean turned, he looked like he might continue to run his mouth and screw the cost. Sam couldn't allow it anymore. He touched Dean's arm. "Don't. It's okay."

     Dean looked down at him, his face a mask of fear and worry, and then took a breath and closed his mouth. Dad gave him a last sharp glance before again turning to Sam.

     "You went out of the room."

     "Yes, sir."

     "What was the order I gave you?"

     "Not to leave the room. Dean told me that, too."

     "Where was Dean?"

     "Asleep. He didn't know anything, honest."

     "So you disobeyed both me and your brother."

     "Yes, sir. I'm sorry," as much as he was trying, he couldn't keep the tremble out of his voice.

     "Do you even realized you could've been _killed_? I don't know how many ghouls are in this town, and even counting out the supernatural shit, there are enough sick human beings out there. I gave you that order for a reason, Sam!"

     Tears prickled Sam's eyes and he snuffled as his nose suddenly started to feel a bit stuffy.

     "And the worst thing? You let Dean cover for you. You just stood there, right there, and you let-"

     "He didn't let me," Dean said softly. "I made him follow my lead. This isn't on him, Dad."

     Now Dad turned to Dean. "You're not doing Sam any favor by allowing him to get away with taking responsibility for his actions."

     "It wasn't his fault. It was mine."

     "How could that have possibly been your fault?!"

     "I should have been watching him and I wasn't."

     "Christ, Dean, it doesn't mean you couldn't _sleep_."

     "Not if I was too tired because I was up all night watching a stupid-ass marathon of stupid-ass kong-fu movies," Dean's voice rose now, trembling and on the verge of breaking. "I knew Sammy was on edge, he was practically climbing the walls itching to get out. I knew I needed to stay alert. And I still stayed up at night instead of getting a good rest so I could watch him while he was awake. If I hadn't gone to sleep, Sam wouldn't have a chance to get outta the room. He could have _died_ out there and I wouldn't even know, because I'd still be here sleeping my lazy ass off!"

     Dean stopped to breathe, and Dad came to him and put both his hands on either side of Dean's face, making his eldest look straight at him. "Listen to me. This wasn't your fault. You hear me? It was not."

     Dean blinked, but didn't seem convinced. Dad sighed.

     "Damn it, Dean. I should have known from the start something was wrong. You wouldn't punch Sammy, and you wouldn't mouth off to me like that. I should have gone to the bottom of this before laying into you. I let my temper get in the way of my better judgment. I'm so sorry, son."

     "Don't be," Dean mumbled. "I deserved it. I deserved worse."

     "No, you didn't," now it was Dad's voice that was breaking. "You didn't deserve any of this, don't think that, don't you dare." He pulled Dean into a hug, and as much as Dean jeered at chick-flick moments, he hid his face in Dad's shoulder and Sam saw his body starting to shake again.

     After what seemed to be a very long time, Dean disengage from Dad and raised his head. Dad lifted one hand to pass a thumb on Dean's cheeks.

     "You're okay?" He asked gently. Dean nodded and managed a half-smile. Dad nodded once, let go of Dean and stepped back. He looked at sam, and Sam took a breath and pulled his shoulders back. But again Dean spoke before Dad did.

     "Don't punish Sammy," Dad looked at him, bewildered. "Please don't. It's enough, the… everything that happened. It's enough for him. He learned whatever lesson he needed to learn. Please, Dad?"

     Dad looked at Dean for a long moment before sighing heavily. "God damn you to hell and back, boy. Fine. Sam, you're off the hook, just this once. But you watch it. Understand?"

     "Yes, sir."

     Dad shook his head, as if clearing it. "How about I get us some chow from the diner down the street?"

     "Hamburger for me," Dean said immediately.

     "Yeah, extra onions, I know. Sammy?"

     "Hamburger's fine."

     "Okay. We can eat and turn in early, I think we all need a bit of rest. Those hunters will probably be here tomorrow, so as soon as I'll fill them in we can get out of here."

     "Dad, what the hell?" Dean's surprise was all over his face. "You're going to give up a hunt?!"

     "Ten days and not one lousy kill? I might be in a little over my head."

     Blush rose in Dean's cheeks. "I just said that to get you riled up. I didn't mean-"

     Dad smiled at him. "I know you didn't. But you were right anyway, no use trying to beat around the bush. Sometimes a hunt's getting too big, and a good hunter has to know when he needs to stand down. Besides, you boys had been locked up long enough." He headed to the exit, grabbing his coat on the way. "I'll be right back. Secure the room."

     "Yes, sir."

     After locking the door and doing a quick scan of the outside through the windows, Dean went over to his bed and gingerly sat down. He sucked in a breath and grimaced. "Sonovabitch, that man can swing. Sitting down for dinner will be _so_ much fun." He shifted to lie down on his belly and hugged the pillow under his head with both arms.

     Sam moved to the bed and knelt by its side. "Does it hurt really bad?" He asked quietly.

     Dean looked at him, no doubt troubled by his brother's concerned tone. "I'll live."

     "I can get you some Tylenol if you want."

     "Nah, I'm fine. Don't worry about it, Sammy."

     Sam dropped his eyes and fiddled with the tattered hem of his shirt. "Dean?"

     "Yeah."

     "I'm sorry," this came out as a whisper, so Sam took a breath and tried again. "I'm so sorry I got you in trouble."

     "You didn't get me in trouble."

     "I did. I disobeyed and I ran out on you and I let you lie for me and I didn't stop Dad before he whipped you and I'm sorry," Sam took another breath, his fingers nearly digging a hole in the fabric of his shirt.

     Dean was silent for a moment and then Sam heard the mattress moan under his weight. "Hey. C'mere."

     Sam glanced up to see Dean had rolled on his side and was now patting the space he cleared beside him. Sam toed off his sneakers and climbed onto bed next to his brother.

     Dean has always been bigger than Sam, but since he went into his adolescent growth spurt, the size difference became nearly overwhelming. Sam didn't mind it one bit, though; as far as he was concerned, Dean was merely growing into the rightful size he always occupied in Sam's eyes. Plus, it became much more comfortable to snuggle up to his big brother like he did now. Dean patiently let Sam shift around until he was resting cozily against his brother's body with his head on Dean's arm, his temple on Dean's chest under his collarbone, his hands fisting into Dean's shirt and Dean's arms wrapped around him.

     "Don't feel bad, Sammy, okay? Sure, you shouldn't have gone outside. But I should've been there to stop you. So it was also my fault."

     "Dad said it wasn't-"

     "I know what he said. But I'm the one in charge when he's gone, you're my responsibility. If anything would have happened to you-" Dean's arms tightened so Sam could hardly breathe, but he welcomed the feeling. After a minute Dean eased the pressure. "Sorry."

     "It's okay," Sam was silent for a moment, Dean's chest moving with his even breathing under Sam's cheek, and then a smile started tugging at his lips. "So, I bet that when you said this is coming out of your ass, you didn't think it would be literally, did you?"

     "My fine ass just saved yours, so why don't you show it some respect instead of being such a little sassball," Sam didn't need to see Dean's face to know his brother was smiling.

     "I'm not a sassball."

     "Sure you are."

     "Am not!"

     "Are too. Bitch."

     "Jerk."

**Author's Note:**

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